Flagpole Sitter
by Cat face
Summary: Twelve thirty, exactly, just as everyday before that I stood there in the frequently deserted male bathroom dubbed by those in my grade the ‘seventh grade bathrooms.’


Flagpole Sitter

Chapter One: I Have Visions

_I have visions _

_I was in them _

_I was looking into the mirror _

_To see a little bit clearer _

_The rottenness and evil in me  _

Twelve thirty, exactly, just as everyday before that I stood there in the frequently deserted male bathroom dubbed by those in my grade the 'seventh grade bathrooms.' Floor four, second corridor on the right, third door on the left. Of course, as the majority of fourth grade rumors are, this one was complete bullocks. Because, until seventh grade you don't seem to realize that anyone could use this bathroom, then once you reach seventh grade you understand there really is no reason to walk so far to use the bathroom. It's a wicked cycle, but fair, owing to the fact I had this bathroom to myself at twelve thirty every day except weekends.   

I had just come out of a wicked lesson of Arithmancy. If my father had not been such an opposing figure I would certainly not have chosen that class. But, being the immensely influential person he was, having the power to reduce my weekly allowance and cut my sweet supply completely off, I ended up taking that horrid class. 

There are only ten people in the class, all of whom I regretfully know by name, scent and disgusting habit. Hermione Granger happened to be the worst; while she by no means dug at her nose constantly like others I could mention, she interrupted the class at every given chance making it near impossible to learn anything. I'm not too keen on learning Arithmancy but, my father being the influential person he was would sadly wreak his unique brand of evil upon my school life if I happen to fail. 

            So there I stood before my haggard reflection brooding over which method of torture would be suitable for the disgustingly annoying mudblood when I was suddenly overcome by a bout of fatigue. I wasn't surprised, not in the least, for after Arithmancy and before history of magic who wouldn't be overcome with fatigue (excluding Hermione Granger)? I leant heavily against the sink and studied the dots on the inside of my eye lids until the fatigue cleared yet, when I opened my eyes I noticed something distinctly wrong with the scene around me. 

            Those fatigue spells were a frequent thing, and I was entirely used to them by fourth grade, but never before had something like this happened. For when I opened my eyes I noticed the room distinctly darker than before, and upon my shoulder sat a small purple cat. 

            My immediate reaction was to brush the cat away, for it was only the size of an apple core but to my surprise when I felt my shoulder there was nothing there but bone, skin and two layers of robes (it was winter.) 

            "Top 'a tha' mornin' to ya." The cat said in a thick Irish accent. 

            "It's no longer morning," I replied turning my gaze back to the mirror, in which the cat still sat upon my shoulder.

            "Whatever," 

            I watched in amazement while the cat lit a cigar which I was certain it had pulled out of its pocket, though it wore no visible pants. 

            "What are you doing?" I asked at length, unable to suppress my curiosity any more.

            "Well, you wanted to know how to get back at that annoying girl, and have I got the plan for you." It said, I noticed its accent had changed from Irish to American, and it now puffed out small smoke rings, which I could smell but not see.

            "It certainly would be a pleasure to give that dirty little mudblood a taste of her own medicine," I said, finally realizing what the cat was proposing, and momentarily forgetting the bizarreness of the situation.

            "No, no, no old chap, you've got the wrong idea." It was talking now in an overenthusiastic English accent, "what we need to do is take her by surprise. Steady as we go," He began using his cigar as a golf club on my shoulder, and I could feel it burning through my robes into my skin, "Then, ooh bad form, she won't know what hit her. Jolly good show." 

            "What are you suggesting?"

            "You gotta hit her where it hurts most mate. Get the sheila inta' the sack, bang 'er, then tell everyone. She'll be mad as a Skippy under a mower."

            "That's completely out of the question!" I said, trying once again to flick it off my shoulder and failing once more, "Do you know what my father would do if he heard I was having sex with girls at school, not to mention the teachers."

            "Argh don't you go and be a stick in the mud, the fellers'll love ya for it."

            "But how would I go around… getting her in the sack as you say. She hates me just as much as I her; and if she doesn't, well, then I haven't been doing a good enough job. And what makes you think I'd want to have sex with a dirty mudblood like her."

            "Alright man, Alright," He then confused me so much as to change to a Jamaican accent, "If you don't want to take her to bed 'den you got to believe me when I say de kiddies at 'dis school will believe anytin' they're told man. Anytin'. You get her panties and I guarantee ya man, you could spread da rumor like locus man."

            "And how do you suggest I find these panties of hers, I can't even get into the Gryffindor common room let alone into their girls room." 

            "Ya got ta have faith brutha!" The cat then held his half smoked cigar against his chest as a preacher would hold the bible, "Let the word of the almighty guide you in your journey! And what is that word brutha, can you say it with me. Squigglygibbet! Say it with me! Squigglygibbet."

            "Squigglygibbet?" Yes, the Gryffindors certainly had bizarre passwords, as I had heard. 

            "Good luck and god speed." The cat whispered

            I blinked, and it was gone. Now by this time I was completely baffled by the whole situation and, had it not been for the lingering smell of tobacco and the burn mark in my shoulder I would have dismissed the whole ordeal as madness. Yet the entire agonizing walk to History of Magic I found myself mulling over the new and potentially exciting information I had received. Had the cat been right? Was it possible to humiliate mudblood Granger while making myself out to be a hero? Was it possible to humiliate mudblood Granger and get away with it? 

            I reached the History of Magic classroom (first floor, first corridor, fifth door on the right) hardly realizing I was fifteen minuets late. I caught sight of Hermione who was, along with every other living and deceased member of the class staring at me. I ignored the rest of them, unable to remove the image of Hermione's panties from my mind. How sweet my revenge would be, I could taste it now, unhindered, malevolent revenge and, oh, how much she deserved it. 

            "Where have you been Mr. Malfoy? Class started fifteen minuets ago. Five points from Slytherin and detention after class." The lingering, transparent teacher said in his monotone voice. 

            "He smells like tobacco, I bet he's been in the bathroom smoking." Hermione took her chance to present her wisdom to the class. 

As I walked by Neville Longbottom sniffed my robes, I jammed his chair up against the desk, causing him to gag on his protruding stomach. The student body erupted into a noisy gabble; it took fifteen more minuets for the teacher to control the class. By that time I had formed my ingenious plan, down to the very last detail, and silently laughed my mocking laugh at the dirty mudblood who dared cross Draco Malfoy.


End file.
